Page 101 of Back to Willow

Watching these two together often makes me forget that…how can I take care of this? How can I be honest about something as serious as this?

“No,” Dylan grumbles.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

“Yes,” the both of them answer in unison, and I giggle.

“Alright.” I set Dylan down. It’s only when I move, bending forward, that Liam is forced to let go of me. “How about some pancakes?”

“Yes,” my son yells, fist-pumping the air, then whispers, “They’re fluffier than Nana’s.”

“I heard that, little rascal!” Nana shouts from the kitchen, earning a widening of Dylan’s eyes like a deer caught in headlights.

“Let’s go, then.” I laugh, walking up to the kitchen where Nana is probably waiting for us. “Both of you will help me, then.”

There, while I make the batter and light up the stove, Nana cuts the fruit, and the boys prepare the table. It takes about half an hour to get everything done.

“Hmmm.” A double moan.

Looking to my right, I watch as both Liam and Dylan moan at the taste of the food. Their movements are completely synchronised as their left hands grip the forks in the exact same way, and their heads tilt back, too. It’s like watching the same person—from past and present—in the same room. So creepy.

Nana glances at me, amusement written all over her face. They dive in for a second bite, still moving equally as if we’re watching it all from the TV or a mirror.

“Lo,” Liam groans, seemingly oblivious. “Just as delicious as I remember.”

“What?” Dylan’s head snaps up, faster than lightning.

“Remember we were friends?” I remind him. “I used to make them for the both of us, growing up.”

“They are the best I’ve ever tasted,” Liam compliments.

“Oh.” A tiny twist in Dylan’s eyebrows shows his inner conflict, but it only makes him more adorable. He looks like he is pouting.

“You were very friends?” he asks, probably asking if we were close.

“Yes, baby,” I answer. “Like you and Abby, we met young and were inseparable until we were around…sixteen. Then Mummy had to move, and we—” I look at Liam uncomfortably, but he just nods, encouraging me. “We lost touch.”

“We were always together,” Liam concludes what I was hesitant to say, afraid to anger him.

The nostalgic smile on his face tells me he’s—just as I am—reminding himself of the so-called “good old times”. There are so many memories and moments that it’s hard to focus, but ultimately, there is one that specifically sticks in my mind.

The first time that I felt fully loved and loved back.Our first time.

It was New Year’s night, and his parents were away for some fancy party, so we had the huge house just to ourselves. It wasn’t planned; after all, he had told me he wanted to make it special on Valentine’s Day. He wanted to do it all, the romantic meal, the rose petals in the bedroom. And while that is all very pretty and romantic, it wouldn’t have felt natural.

And with the both of us, things always happened naturally. They always had, and this time was no exception. It felt right then. And like everything else, he did my bidding.

I knew that the first time wouldn’t be perfect or pleasurable because we were both virgins, inexperienced, and somewhat ignorant. But we were also hormonal teenagers who were in love and wanted to take their relationship to the next step, to show how strong and beautiful that feeling was.

“Is it still hurting, baby?” His voice was a low, shaky whisper, showing me how affected he was.

There was stinging at the beginning, and the first few times he moved, I whimpered in pain, even with all the lubrification from getting me off with his fingers and the condom.

But he knew what to do to ease that pain. His hungry kisses kept me busy, and his wandering hands travelled from my jaw to my chest, caressing and pinching my nipples to gripping my hip and groping my butt. It was odd, a wave of new sensations that I was sharing with him by being this full with him.

But besides that little stinging, that uncomfortable feeling, it felt good. It felt empowering and…epic.

I was giving a part of myself that no one else had access to. Something that was just his and mine. Ours.

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